“Nice to meet you,” he says.
Suddenly, J.J. lifts the back of Connor’s shirt before anyone knows what he’s doing and asks, “Who colored these pictures all over you?
“They’re tattoos you idiot,” McKenzie snips.
“Enough McKenzie,” Wendy growls in frustration.
Connor stands, tugging his shirt back down and informs J.J., “A bunch of different people colored them.”
“Cool,” J.J. says, giving him a toothless grin, before moving past his mother at the counter, fixated on his feast of grilled cheese. McKenzie groans, clearly wanting attention, and against my better judgment, I fold and give it to her.
“Hey, McKenzie,” I wave. “What’s wrong?”
“My cell got cut off. That’s what’s wrong,” she complains as she crosses her arms and pouts.
“Well, it would be lovely to have a phone that you can talk on but can’t charge because we couldn’t afford to pay the power bill because we paid for said phone!” Wendy snaps.
“I hate this house! I hate being poor,” McKenzie shouts as she bolts out of her seat and flies past us to leave. But Wendy’s oldest son, Mark, is in the doorway and seeing she’s super pissed, and only being dutiful, fulfilling his role as her older brother, decides now’s the best time to mess with her. He holds both hands on the doorframe as McKenzie tries to push past him. When she starts hitting him, he laughs. Mark is sixteen and almost as big as Jeff. He can take a few girly hits which up until this point, that’s all McKenzie has doled out.
“What’s the matter Kenz?” Mark teases pouting his lip mockingly. “Got your period?”
McKenzie stops hitting him, and her eyes go wide with rage. He just brought up her period in front a stranger—Connor—there will definitely be hell to pay. He’s busy laughing when her knee pops up giving him a hard hit to the balls. He folds to the floor and yells out in pain as she steps over him and leaves the room.
“McKenzie!” Wendy shrieks as she rushes to Mark. But McKenzie ignores her as she tromps up the stairs and slams her bedroom door. As Wendy tends to Mark, I look back and find J.J. gorging on grilled cheese and Grayson still lining up matchbox cars completely oblivious to all the commotion.
“We should probably go,” I tell Connor.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
Wendy stands, and we step over Mark to exit the kitchen where he’s laying in the fetal position, cupping his manhood. Wendy walks us to the door and hugs me.
“I’m sorry for all the commotion.”
“Don’t be,” I chuckle as I hand her the small paper bag of candy bars. “Connor bought these for the kids.”
“Well that was so nice of you,” Wendy grins.
Cutting me a sideways glance, Connor clarifies, “They’re from both of us.”
“Well thanks to both of you,” Wendy says, as she darts her eyes back and forth between us, her mouth quirked in a smirk.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“If I survive the weekend,” she sighs. “Good to see you again Connor.” She hugs him, and he’s slow to return it, a little surprised by her affection, But after a beat, his arms wrap around her, and he says, “You too, Wendy.”
Once we’re outside, and Wendy shuts the door we hear Wendy yell, “Get up Mark. You’re not that big; she couldn’t have done but so much damage.”
Connor’s brows rise, and we both burst out laughing as we make our way to my car.
By the time Monday rolls around, I’m ready to go back to work even if it’s only three days a week for a few hours. The county’s budget is always short and because of that, they can’t afford a full-time staff in the summer for the special needs kids. My work day flies by, and it’s noon before I know it. All of my students have been picked up when Shelly from the front office enters my classroom with a flat, square package.
“You were out last week when this came.”
“What is it?” I ask as she hands me the parcel, which is also surprisingly light.
“I don’t know. Some guy dropped it off. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she calls as she hurries out of the room, eager to leave work for the day.
Tearing open the paper, I realize it’s a painting. It’s a painting of the autism symbol; a multi-colored puzzle piece. I don’t see a note until I turn the painting and find a card taped to the back of the canvas.
My face hurts I’m smiling so big. The painting is lovely, and I decide I’m going to hang it in the classroom. My students will love the bright colors. I can’t deny I’m impressed. This is probably one of the most romantic things anyone has ever done for me. If he delivered this last week, he must think I’ve blown him off. I yank my cell out of my purse and shoot him a text.
Me:
The painting is beautiful. Thank you.
A few minutes pass and I check the number to make sure I dialed right. Yes, it’s right. What if he’s not interested anymore?
Vick:
I’ve given out a lot of paintings lately. Who is this?
My stomach knots. Does he always do this kind of thing for women he asks out? Should I even respond to this?
Vick:
I’m just kidding, Demi. I haven’t stopped thinking about the gorgeous woman I stumbled upon in the grocery store, talking to herself.
I cringe as I remember how crazy I must’ve looked.
Me:
You’re hilarious. I fell for it . . . again.
Vick:
I like that about you. ;) So . . . meet me for dinner?
Me:
Yes. I’d like that.
Vick:
Tillie’s, seven o’clock on Wednesday?
Me:
See you then.
Vick:
Have I mentioned I’m really starting to love this place? ;) See you, Wednesday.
I stay in my classroom for a few more hours, organizing and cleaning. Mostly killing time until four when Wendy wants to meet for happy hour. I know times are tough, and she’s super stressed; with five kids I’m sure she’s busting at the seams to get out of the house. As I drive to Tillie’s to meet Wendy, the thought of going out with a man for the first time since Blake passed runs through my mind. While the idea of it is exciting, there’s also guilt. If Blake were still alive, there’d be no Vick, and there’d be no first date. I’d be on my way home right now to cook us dinner.
At a red light, I pull my cell out and dial Lexi.
“Helloooo, darling,” she answers in a British accent.
“I have a date,” I blurt out. I feel like this little fact has been bottled up inside me ready to burst free at any moment. Lexi is probably the worst person to tell, but she is my sister.
“You do?” The astonishment is extremely evident in her voice. She’s shocked.
“Yes. I met him at the grocery store the other day. His name is Vick.”
“Holy shit, Dem,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “You okay?” She knows I’m okay and even though she’s been pushing me to get back out there, she knows this is a huge step for me. I’m touched she at least thought to ask how I’m holding up.
“I’m okay . . . I think,” I answer honestly as I push some of my hair behind my ear. “We’re meeting for dinner Wednesday.”
“I’m coming over to help you get ready,” she volunteers.
“You don’t have to do that, Lex.”